Page 8 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
“I’ve upset you good and proper, haven’t I, Frank?” I can hardly stand to look at the disappointment etched on his face. “I can only reiterate how sorry I am. You did make it clear that whoever the tarts were gifted to needed to be a worthy candidate. My gut instinct was way off the mark there.”
“Don’t be daft, lovie,” Frank finally replies with a shake of his head. He pulls up the seat opposite me and sits down. “It was just one of those things. You handled it better than my Millie would have, that’s for sure.” Frank lets out a wistful chuckle. “Whenever our boys used to pilfer the cake out of the kitchen tin when they thought she wasn’t looking, she’d flick her tea towel and nip their bottoms good and proper. She had such a great aim! You hadn’t a hope in hell if you were a buzzing bluebottle fly.”
“Sounds like they should have invented an Olympic sport just for Millie.”
“She’d have won gold every time. Mind, she had a heart of gold too.”
“May I ask why you refer to her in the past tense, Frank? If it’s not being too inquisitive.”
“Not today, Willow. I’m still processing my feelings… even if it has taken a fair few years. But I’m getting there bit by bit. We’ll chat about it soon though, on a quieter afternoon.”
“Of course, and I’m sorry for bringing it up.”
“Not at all. The strangest of situations can trigger all sorts of random memories. And this one came courtesy of a man who can only be described as the world’s most self-entitled git. It’s quite remarkable really!”
Frank smiles and I have to acknowledge that the world truly does work in mysterious ways. I won’t press him about Millie who, it’s clear to me, must have passed away several years ago. And though I’m curious about his offspring and their whereabouts, I won’t question him about them either. I’m just relieved the café is offering Frank the opportunity to reminisce and open up. How dare an uppitypastel de natapurist try to take that away? Who are we harming here with our little creative outlet? The guy said it himself, we are tucked away at the end of the pier, for goodness sake. I’m hardly touting my wares under the flashing lights of the amusement arcade…
***
What an obnoxiousgit!
Of course I can think of stronger words but swearing has never been my style. When one wants to use lexicography to highlight someone else’s flaws, my wordsmith friend Reggie has taught me that there are more than enough adjectives and nouns to describe today’s uninvited guest and his behaviour: mumpsimus, philodox and pish-monger all spring to mind.
And staying on theof coursetheme, now the perfect comeback enters my head (of course): that gold-framed Cristiano Ronaldo endorsement of custard, which is gracing the washbasin area of the loos. Why didn’t I think to unhook it from its nail and show it to the idiot when he was snubbing my custard pairings? If his beloved Ronaldo thinks custard goes well enough with a fruit crumble, then as far as I’m concerned, that’s carte blanche for me to create and sell (and for the customers to enjoy) every single custard tart variety on our shelves.
Blimming hindsight! Who invented a notion so useless? I’m willing to bet it was a man.
I cheer myself up by remembering the two young women and the lad from earlier. It’s either intrepid or delusional to follow up their request and visit the TripAdvisor website, but now I’m back home I can’t resist taking a look anyway– because things can hardly get any worse– and I let out a giddy gasp as I read through the cluster of five-star recommendations listed under The Custard Tart Café, Weston-super-Mare. Not only have they, as individuals, taken the time to give the thumbs-up to my pastries and the venue (with some idyllic snapshots to boot), but I’m willing to guess they have chivied along every single customer present this morning to do the same. Even the sexist hi-vis jacket brigade!
I want to reply to every gorgeous comment with my heartfelt thanks but I know I need to keep things looking authentic. So many five star entries on the same day is a little suspicious, to say the least. I hope and I pray that those three guardian angel customers haven’t unwittingly and telepathically shared their idea with the man whose shoddy behaviour has caused this giant act of kindness. The last thing I need is him adding his tuppence-worth to TripAdvisor, too. And now I am back to fretting over his snide remarks and those parting words of warning. Because that’s what us creatives always do: forget all the wonderful, positive feedback, and zone in obsessively on the hater we failed to convince, stewing over their critique, wondering if we could have swayed them to like our little piece of art even a little bit.
It’s several hours after the event and I am holding onto my cold cup of Ovaltine for dear life, staring vacantly out of the window, the magical twilight wasted on me. This is Callum all over again. This is Rufus all over again. This is every time anybody has ever dissed my impulsiveness, innovation, and individuality all over again.I can’t do this.Even in spite of the high praise. I will just have to see out the lease, give everybody notice, and return to a life of working behind the scenes; the life I was clearly destined for.
CHAPTER FOUR
I wake witha start, my temples beaded in perspiration. I wouldn’t mind if this was thanks to a sex marathon (real or in a dream-like state, with a man as delectable as Antonio flipping Banderas, whose younger carbon copy in a certain marketing department is making my sister increasingly horny, and whom said sister can’t seem to stop texting me about). Here’s a summary of this morning’s messages from Lauren:
Had a right moment with you-know-who in the uber narrow communal kitchen just now! Such a shame he needed to squeeeeeeeeze past me to get to the fridge while I was helping myself to coffee.
Making her own hot drink. Now that had to be a first…
But, OMG, even better than that was when the little hottie transformed himself from his work clothes into his football kit ready for evening training last night. Phwoar, what a bod, Bonsai! Those calves could give Jack Grealish a run for his money. Jamie was in our office at the time, and I have to say, I think it’ll only be a matter of time before he ends up separating us. Boo! Antonio’s playing it cool for now and barely takes any notice of me, despite the fact I am technically his boss in the hierarchical sense. Majorly green-eyed vibes permeating the airwaves from my hubs, though he’s surrounded by young and pretty twenty-somethings on his floor. Still, not one of them can compete with the cool, calm gorgeousness of the new boy, and doesn’t Jamie know it? LOL.
At least a couple of black coffees will have sobered her up. That is something. Whilst her obsession with a certain Hollywood star’s body double seems to be growing by the day (surely she’s worked out the name of the new guy in the office by now) thankfully there are no more outlandish mentions of marketing campaigns starring Jen, Dave andFriends.
Come to think of it, now I stop to reflect on yesterday’s shenanigans, the jumped-up idiot who burst into the café might have had a little something Antonio Banderas about him, too. I can’t put my finger on what, but he definitely put me in mind of the actor– in hisZorrodays, that is, not so much as Shrek’s nemesis,Puss in Boots. All of which is neither here nor there, because my current physical state is the result of something I thought I’d long ago put to bed; that terrifyingly brutal recurring dream.
School play evening. The spring of my GCSEs. The hopelessly amateur production of Bugsy Malone. I told you I’d reveal all when the time was right. I guess home alone in my bed on a Sunday morning is the readiest I’ll ever be. I sniff and grab a handful of the boxed tissues that are patiently waiting on my bedside cabinet. Isn’t it pathetic, the way a distant childhood memory can pervade your adult life? A shadow you can’t outrun. It lurks ready to pounce when you least suspect it. Unexpected stressful situations seem to trigger it, and what with yesterday being up there on the EPIC level of tense, I know I am now in for several nights of torture. I really should see a hypnotherapist. Kelly would love that, not that I have ever shared this recurring nightmare with anyone in the waking world, it’s bad enough reliving the real life events in my sleep. Or maybe I should sign myself up for some neuro-linguistic programming. But there are never enough hours in the day, and it usually stops soon enough by itself.
Anyway, where was I? Eugh, yes, my secondary school, Sandy Bay High, and itseau deboiled cabbage corridors. Sounds like something out of Grease, doesn’t it? Although the fictional American high school would definitely fare better in the fragrance stakes, no doubt doused in the fruity nectar of bubblegum. But back to Bugsy Malone– I’d wanted to land the role for so long. No, not playing the main man, nor dolling myself up as Tallulah opposite some luscious Bugsy. The role I’d crossed my fingers and toes for waswaymore exciting than that: spotlighting the stage, painting the background tableaux, sourcing and creating the twenties era props, swiping the mounds of costume-sewing out of the hands of the volunteering yet ungratefully grumbling mums. Aka my idea of bliss.
Instead I’d been lumbered with various doormat-style tasks; handing out programmes to the audience on arrival, plying Damian, our bossy scruff of a stage manager with cups of tea and biscuits, running between the dressing rooms to test my fellow student starlets on their lines before they made their stage appearances, and selling raffle tickets and ice cream to the hordes in the foyer during the interval. Then came thepièce de résistance: securing the painfully amateur art deco scenery in place before the opening scene of Act Two, and Tallulah’s infamous song.
As usual, it took a little brute force to slot the giant clips into place at the left side of the stage. They weren’t the best scenery boards, admittedly, but it was as far as the school’s budget would go. I’d been briefed once and had demonstrated my competence twice, in an ordinary rehearsal, and then in the all-important dress rehearsal. But the clips on the right side were playing up big time tonight, our opening night. I was really going to have to give it some welly to wedge the damned things in place, or I’d be holding the scenery up by sheer willpower alone, until somebody else backstage cottoned on to my dilemma.
But those clips weren’t the only thing playing up…
I tried to ignore the sensation at first, as I stood there, arms outstretched, trying to anchor the painted backdrop. The thrum of the expectant crowd behind the mock velvet red curtains built in intensity. The unusually oppressive late spring heat did nothing to help, a lone bead of sweat trickling down my temple. I watched Tallulah sashay into her place ready to belt out her number, I held my breath as the curtains opened on the fast-paced second half of the show. I waited for the orchestra to strike up the first notes of Talullah’s solo, and I winced as Tallulah pursed her luscious red lips ahead of her lyrical outburst. I watched and I waited until I could take it no more. I just had to do something about that pesky, errant strand of hair and the way it wouldn’t quit tickling my cheek. I carried out a quick mental calculation:Could I?Yeah, piece of cake!But would my reflexes be quick enough?They had to be! No way was I going to be able to carry on like this for the next twenty minutes or so. It was one thing to hold the backdrop for an important scene in place with two hands. It was quite another to do that with a piece of hair irritating the life out of you. Besides which, I had not so much a stage to keep up, but a reputation to upkeep: the art of the flawlessly creative hair-do.
